


Home

by SailorChibi



Series: Searching for Home [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, OT3, Sherlock has no tact, Slash, Threesome - M/M/M, and not much sense either, just a cute little sequel, lucky John is there, poor Greg has been blindsided, rated for naked Sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-04
Updated: 2013-02-04
Packaged: 2017-11-28 05:29:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,511
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/670812
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SailorChibi/pseuds/SailorChibi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Greg wakes up at Baker Street the next morning. John and Sherlock try to convince him that this can work - with mixed results.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Home

**Author's Note:**

> Sherlock belongs to Moffat, Gatiss, and Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.
> 
> This is the direct sequel to [Homebound](http://archiveofourown.org/works/664358) and you should probably read that first.

It is dark by the time Greg wakes up again, and the room is unfamiliar. The former is not nearly as distressing as the latter, as for a long moment he can't even remember leaving his office and he's left wondering if he somehow ended up in someone else's bed. There's a young, new recruit who has been hinting for days that she might like to erase the memories of his ex-wife for him, and if he's ended up in her bed he's never going to forgive himself. He sits up, letting the covers fall down around his thighs, and looks around. The room is moderately sized, neat, with several books piled on the far side. Greg stares at them blankly and then glances automatically at the clock, feeling an unaccustomed jolt at the sight of the time.

Good lord, the words "late for work" don't cover it, not anymore. It's almost half past five and Sally's probably called his cell several times by now; he'll hear it from her later when she realizes that he was just sleeping instead of kidnapped or worse. He starts to throw the covers back and pauses when the door to the room opens. Instead of that sexy recruit, John Watson is standing in the doorway. He's holding a plate piled high with toast and Greg can't help it: the second the tantalizing smell of bread and marmalade hits him his stomach growls loudly.

John laughs and steps inside, setting the plate down on Greg's lap. "I thought you'd be hungry. God only knows how long it's been since you ate anything more than coffee and takeaway," he remarks, sitting down on the edge of the bed. "Go ahead."

In spite of all the questions rushing through his brain, Greg can't refuse the call of the toast. And oh god, it's bloody marvellous, all soft and buttery in the middle and crisp with marmalade on the outside. As he devours the first slice, he starts to remember a little bit from the night before. Yes, that's right: Sherlock and John had shown up, which was odd because they hadn't had a hand in the case that day. Greg hadn't bothered calling either of them in because it was the sort of case Sherlock would've deemed boring. He has a half-formed, foggy memory of the two men ushering him out of his office and leaving the rest of his paperwork on Sally's desk, but anything after that is a hazy blur of exhaustion.

"Where are we?" he asks through a mouthful of toast. He can guess, but for some reason he wants to hear John say it.

"Baker Street," says John, confirming Greg's suspicion. 

Greg nods. Takes another bite of toast. Says, "Why?"

"Why what?"

"Why... why _everything_?" Because he's got a lot of questions that start with why, too many to list through if he's being honest. Why did Sherlock and John show up in the first place? Why had they been so determined to roust him from his office? Why had they brought him here to Baker Street? Why hadn't they taken him back to his flat, or even to a hotel? Why was John being so kind? Why was he lying in one of their beds instead of on the sofa?

"You were working yourself to death, Greg," John says gently. It seems he's got experience at interpreting odd questions, which is no surprise considering who he lives with. "I can tell that you haven't been sleeping or eating properly. You're completely stressed out, on the verge of a break down, and no one else was going to step in and make you stop." He pauses and studies Greg's face. "Sherlock and I are worried about you. We wanted to make sure that you would be alright."

Worried? That's not the word Greg would use, and he's suddenly absurdly relieved for the darkness that keeps John from seeing the miserable flush on his face. He'd thought he was keeping it together pretty well, dodging all the concern that might come his way, but apparently he was wrong. Of course Sherlock Bloody Holmes had worked it out, and then Doctor John Watson felt compelled to do something about it once he heard. He's certain that this whole thing can't have been Sherlock's idea, and he can just imagine how bothered Sherlock is as a result of John's new patient. He stares down at the remaining crumbs on his plate and swallows hard against the burn in his throat. 

"Greg?"

"I'm fine," he says, setting the plate aside. "I just - needed a bit of sleep, that's all."

"A bit of sleep won't cut it. You've been out for about thirteen hours and I can still tell that you need more." Before Greg can do anything, protest or move, there's a hand on his forehead and another one on his neck, the fingers searching for his suddenly elevated pulse. John keeps them there for a long minute, counting the beats, and there's concern in his face when he lets go. "You haven't been taking care of yourself at all."

There is very little Greg can say to that. He's not used to having someone challenge him about his health. Donna had never cared, not really, especially not after she began seeing other men on the side. Their relationship had deteriorated in more ways than just the physical. And he rarely sees any of his other family anymore, parents dead and siblings wound up in their own lives. But he realizes that John is waiting for an answer still, so he says, "I've just been going through a rough patch, that's all. The divorce was finalized a few months ago and I'm still finding my feet."

Usually bringing his divorce up is enough to make people back off. John, however, is no ordinary man. "I can understand that, but I'm not about to let you put your health at risk. You can stay here until you're feeling better."

"What?" Greg croaks, incredulous, because honestly that is the last thing he was expecting. The very idea is laughable. Stay here with Sherlock and John, where he'll have to watch the two of them share their private jokes and looks and smiles? It's bad enough to have to be around them at a crime scene. There's no way he can tolerate that on a regular basis. "That's a nice offer, John, but I'm afraid I'm going to have to pass. I hardly think that 221b is big enough for all of us."

"Isn't it?" A deep, silky voice intrudes on the conversation, not necessarily unwelcome but - yeah, alright, Greg's not thrilled that he's being ganged up on. He turns to face the door, ready to respond with a cutting remark, but every word that is on the tip of his tongue abruptly dies.

Sherlock Holmes is stark naked. That’s the first – only – thing he notices. The man is reclining casually against the door, and god knows how long he’s been there. One hand hangs casually at his side, the other rests on an artfully cocked hip. There’s a fine smattering of pale hair on his chest, leading down to - Greg swallows hard, his mouth suddenly extraordinary dry - a thin line of darker hair, and then to his cock, nestled amongst dark curls. His thighs and legs and ribs and nipples, every inch of the bastard is exquisite, and even though Greg knows he shouldn’t be looking, especially with John right beside him, he can’t stop.

“Sherlock,” John says, gently chiding, “I thought we were going to talk to him first.” 

“You are talking,” says Sherlock, and he makes a little motion with his hand as though to say, well go on then.

“You’re a little distracting.” John sounds like he can’t decide whether to mad or amused and is settling on fondly exasperated. It seems to be a state of mind he’s intensely familiar with. 

One slender shoulder rises and falls in a shrug. Greg, still captivated by the play of muscles under pale skin, swallows for a second time. This isn’t the first time he has seen Sherlock naked - there is one very memorable occasion when a criminal took to the sewers in an effort to escape, and Sherlock had followed him down and emerged covered in something that looked horrible and smelled worse - but it is the first time he’s had the chance to look at his leisure. At least until his eyes meet Sherlock’s, the silvery eyes half-lidded and gleaming in the dark, and recognizes the veiled smirk for what it is. Face flaming, he looks away hastily and makes to get up again.

“Hang on. Don’t leave so fast. I’m sorry, you know what he’s like, impatient as anything.” John bars his way and rests a light but restricting hand on his thigh, far too close for comfort. “I wanted to see how things went before we said anything.”

“Anything about what?” Greg croaks, because he feels like there is something he is missing. 

In response, John proves that Sherlock is not the only impatient one. He puts his other hand on Greg’s cheek and leans forward, catching his mouth in a kiss that makes Greg’s breath freeze in his lungs. He wants to kiss back, wants to pull away, and feels utterly incapable of doing anything but sitting perfectly still. He jumps when he feels long, cold fingers sliding across his shoulders, and he realizes that Sherlock has moved away from the door and is now perched behind him on the bed. One slim, bare thigh is tucked up against the curve of Greg’s arse.

“Do you see?” Sherlock murmurs into his ear. “Do you _observe_?” He sounds amused, the bastard, probably aware of the confused state of shock that Greg has fallen into. “John and I, and you: the three of us.” His hands slide down, skimming the surface of Greg’s ribs very lightly, prompting a shiver. 

With effort, he pulls away from John. “The… three of us?”

“Why not?”

“Why _not_?” He feels a bout of why may be hysterical laughter bubbling up. “You two are - you’re _that_ , and I’m not - ”

“You could be,” John says very gently, “if you wanted to.”

“He wants to,” says Sherlock. “The signs of physical arousal are all there. Dilated pupils, elevated pulse rate, and this.” Fingers brushing against the bulge between Greg’s thighs make him jump again, and John sighs.

“Not helping, Sherlock.”

“I,” Greg says and then stops, because it feels like his mind has been broken. 

“Look, Greg, we’re interested. In you, I mean, in case that hasn’t been made clear already. But you don’t have to do anything. Sherlock says you want this. I’m not sure I’m inclined to agree.” John chews his lower lip nervously. 

And, okay, Greg’s still utterly blindsided and stunned, but he challenges anyone to deny a John Watson that looks _that_ worried about rejection. He’s kissing John again before he can stop himself, and he feels John give a little gasp of surprise and then melt so thoroughly into the kiss it’s intoxicating, and he could easily do this for hours. Greg has to will himself to pull back. “I just - ” he says, “you’ve… where is this coming from?”

“It’s always been there,” Sherlock says, one of his thumbs idly tracing Greg’s rib. “I knew you wanted me, but you were married and, unlike your wife, actually committed to your vows. There never seemed to be a point in making my interest more obvious. Then I met John.” And that seems to be all he needs to say because he leans down and attaches his mouth to the back of Greg’s neck, and oh _god_ Greg can finally say he’s found a valid use for Sherlock Holmes’s big mouth.

“I love Sherlock,” John says, drawing Greg’s attention back to him. “But you are… well, you know. I was just curious at first, wanted to know more about the man who could handle Sherlock for so long without shooting him. Turns out you’re a spectacularly fine bloke in more ways than one.” He smiles shyly. “Of course, it took the berk behind you all of five minutes to work it out, I think he knew before I did, and the next thing I know he’s plotting how he’s going to get us both into bed. I admit, I didn’t protest very hard. Best of both worlds if you ask me. But…” and now he looks serious again “nothing has to happen if this isn’t what you want. You can think about it. I know it’s a lot to ask.”

Not quite as much as you think, Greg wants to say, because he’s been dreaming about them both for a while now, and of course Sherlock would have known, and this seems like it is too good to be true. He stares at John, taking in the utter sincerity in his face. Finally, his frantic heart rate starts to slow into something more manageable, and a strange sense of calm settles over him, bringing clarity along with it: this, whatever this is, is not something to be rushed into. Right now he’s got a consulting detective and a friend, and he doesn’t want to lose either one if things go south.

“I think,” he says, and in spite of himself the words sound shy, “that maybe I could stay here for a day or two. Unwind a little. Get some rest.”

John’s eyes light up, though it’s hard to say whether that’s because Greg has agreed to stay or because he’s going to get the chance to properly monitor Greg’s recovery. “Really? That’s - brilliant, Greg, thank you.” For the chance, he means, and Greg gives a shaky smile in response. He’s not sure how _he_ became the one that Sherlock and John are pursuing. 

“Boring,” Sherlock says, voice muffled, lips brushing the back of Greg’s neck, prompting a shiver. “Are we going to have sex or not?”

“Not,” John and Greg say in perfect unison.

Sherlock huffs and unwinds himself from where he’s draped around Greg. Graceful to the end, he stands up and drops a kiss onto John’s mouth, and then one onto Greg’s, and the illusion of utter normalcy in a situation that is anything but normal leaves Greg boggled as Sherlock strides out of the room. But he’s not so bad off that he can’t recognize an opportunity when it literally presents itself, and his eyes remained glued to Sherlock’s frankly fantastic arse as the man leaves. He only remembers himself when John coughs, and his cheeks flush as he glances over sheepishly.

John’s grinning. “He’s got quite an arse, doesn’t he?” he says almost gleefully.

“Ah, yeah, he does,” Greg says, realizing that this means he might actually be allowed to look. To touch. To kiss. To do everything he’s ever fantasized and dreamed about, to both of them. To – god, the possibilities are endless, really, and suddenly life doesn’t look quite so depressing anymore.


End file.
